


A Higher Calling

by SLq



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-08-07 12:19:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7714642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLq/pseuds/SLq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold is a teacher at an inner-city high school. John is a newly hired security guard who takes an interest in fussy Mr. Wren.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Harold leaves his house at quarter past five. He locks the door, grips his thermos, and tries not to spill any of the folders in his arms on the way to the car. The seatbelt is across his chest when he realizes he had forgotten his suitcase by the door. Again. Harold sighs, unbuckles, and rewinds.

The commute to Bronx Academy takes an hour. Harold spends it listening to the news on the radio. He is frowning by the time he pulls into the parking lot. It is probably foolish to hope that BBC World will have better things to say about the world today, but Harold does anyway. His laptop is in the suitcase. He hopes he won't run into anyone chatty in the break room, so he can read in peace.

"Dennis, is that you?"

Three cars away, a short boy with tan skin and a head full of dark curls shoots to his feet. His mulish glare melts into embarrassment when he sees Harold. A can of red spray paint rolls by his feet and comes to rest at the parking lot fence.

Harold walks over. The long drive has stiffened his muscles, making his limp more pronounced than usual. He comes to stand next to a shuffling Dennis. An anatomically-incorrect penis drips red down the side of Principal Simmons' black Mercedes. Harold sighs.

"I suppose it is too much to hope you used water-soluble paint."

Dennis shrugs.

"Bring the can, please."

Dennis goes to the fence. He hurries back and hands the can over without looking at Harold. Harold studies the label, then opens his suitcase and zips the can in one of the compartments. "There are some folders in my car, and a thermos. Would you mind carrying them to the classroom for me?"

Dennis looks up hesitantly. "I'm suspended."

"I am aware." Dennis continues to look at him. Harold raises his brows expectantly.

"I - fine."

"Thank you. Lock the car when you are done, please."

Dennis stares at the key ring like he has never seen one before. He accepts it after a moment of hesitation.

"Careful with the thermos, it might be hot," Harold calls after him.

Dennis brings the folders over. Harold takes the thermos from the boy and leads the way into the building. The school is still quiet, mostly empty. The lone security guard waves them in through the metal detector stationed at the door. Harold does not recognize him. The machine beeps when Harold walks through, as it always does. The guards know not to bother him over it by now, but this man is new.

"Step to the side, please," the man says. Harold contains a sigh and wobbles to a plastic table pushed against the wall.

"Leave him alone!" Dennis snarls. The guard's expression turns mildly amused. Genuine mirth, no malice or mockery. Harold relaxes.

"Go on ahead," he tells Dennis.

Dennis turns belligerent eyes to Harold. "But-"

"I will be along shortly."

Dennis glares at the guard and then takes off, feet stomping loudly at the linoleum floor.

"Nice kid."

"He is." Harold squints at the nametag pinned at the man's chest. "Mr. Reese-"

"John."

Harold tips his head up. The man is smiling at him, blue eyes bright. "John. My name is Harold Wren. I am a teacher here."

"Nice to meet you, Harold," John rumbles.

"Likewise. You see, Mr. Reese-"

"John."

"Yes, well. John." Harold blames his flustering on the early hour. The steady upward curl of John's lips is not helping. "I am afraid this," Harold motions to the metal detector, "will keep happening. I have had several operations that have left me with quite a bit of metal in my body."

"Neck and hip."

Harold nods, surprised. "You have a good eye." John shrugs.

"More like good memory. You see all kinds of injuries in the service."

"Army?"

"Among other things."

Harold studies him, a frown of concentration curling his expressive features. "Yes, I see."

John quirks an eyebrow. "Do you, now." He injects just enough skepticism in his voice to make Harold bristle without being too obvious in his intent. Harold sees through the manipulation, of course.

The fact that he still responds leaves Harold terribly bewildered with himself.

"A substantial percentage of the school's security personnel has army background. You hold yourself in a similar manner, but there are some key differences."

John's other eyebrow climbs up to join the first. "Such as..."

"This." Harold waves between them. "The conversation we are having."

"I am finding it very pleasant."

"And informative, I would wager." John smiles innocently. Harold fights an answering twist of the lips. "I am happy to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Reese - John," he amends. John closes his mouth and smirks. "But I do have a student waiting. May I go?"

"You may." Harold smiles politely and makes to go around John. "As soon as you tell me what you are planning to do with that can of spray paint in your suitcase."

Harold's mind stutters still for a second. "How...?" John grins.

"Follow me, _Mr. Wren_."

John leads Harold to a small room off the side of the main entrance. It is barely wide enough for the two of them to stand side by side. There are no windows or furniture except for a single desk. Three monitors sit on top of it. Each shows four different camera feeds at once.

"Technology is everywhere nowadays, Harold." John bends over the single keyboard. Monitor 1 flickers and fills with the parking lot. Harold can see both his own car and Principal Simmons' vandalized Mercedes clearly. "Someone's always watching."

"Not always," Harold says. The screen reflects in his glasses, ghostly. "Not nearly often enough."

John has straightened. He is watching Harold, smile in place, eyes sharp. "And why would you say that?"

"I mean to take the spray paint home and dispose of it, Mr. Reese." Harold does not look away from the computer screen. His mouth is a hard line, his grip on his suitcase tight. "I hope we can keep this matter between us."

"Sure."

Large blue eyes flick up at last. John smiles reassuringly. The tense line of Harold's shoulders smoothes into a curve.

"Thank you, John."

"No problem."

Harold walks the short distance to his classroom with the weight of John Reese's eyes on his back. He resists the urge to look at the man in turn.

Dennis is leafing through a book at Harold's desk. He stands in a hurry when the classroom door opens. Harold smiles at him. The boy frowns back.

"What'd he want?"

"Oh, nothing of import. Mr. Reese was just introducing himself. He is new, you see." Dennis harrumphs rudely. He moves out of the way when Harold rounds the desk, subtly pushing the chair out for him. The folders Harold had Dennis carry are stacked in a neat pile at the desk's edge. Harold's smile creases his eyes. "Thank you for your help, Dennis."

Dennis fidgets. "Sure. Can I go now?"

"I was hoping we could talk."

Dennis' expression goes blank. Harold maintains his own smile with some difficulty. A boy that young should not know how to look hollow. "What about?"

"Your suspension, for one. Sit down, please." Dennis collapses in a chair behind one of two dozen plastic desks. Harold does not react to the show of temper. He knows it goes skin deep. "Fighting never solves anything, Dennis."

"Yeah, maybe where you come from."

"That may be so." Dennis looks up, surprised. Harold holds his eyes. "You cannot afford to miss five days of school right now, Dennis. The SATs are in two weeks."

"I know. I fu- I know, alright?" Dennis bows his head. His knee drums against the underside of the desk. "Who cares anyway. Not like I'm gonna go to college."

"I care." Dennis flinches. Harold tries to press his voice back into evenness. He is not angry with the boy. "Dennis, you are a smart young man-" Dennis snorts derisively; Harold keeps on talking, "-and I am absolutely certain you will not only be accepted to a good college, but that you will excel in your studies there. Have you had time to look through the scholarship applications I gave you?"

Dennis licks his lips. "Yeah. I - I filled in a couple."

Harold's mouth softens from its grim line. "The essay on Plato?" Dennis glances up.

"Yeah."

"I would very much like to read it."

"Sure. I can, um, print you a copy." Dennis' expression slips back into moroseness. "The best scholarships want good SAT scores."

Harold drums his fingers against the desk, considering. "How do you feel about a tutor, Dennis?"

Dennis blinks. "You?"

"Naturally."

"But - don't you have, you know, stuff to do?"

Harold raises an eyebrow. "I am a teacher. Tutoring you would fall under the 'stuff' I do."

Dennis' mouth twitches. "I guess. I dunno. I mean, I was thinking of picking up a few extra shifts at work."

"You still could. I will be engaged until at least four every day." Harold would rather the boy focuses entirely on studying, but it is not his place to insist. Dennis is nodding at his shoes.

"Then, I guess - I mean, that'd be. Good. I could meet you here?"

"You are still suspended, Dennis. You cannot be on school grounds." Dennis lifts his brows at him, almost a perfect imitation of Harold's own favorite expression. Harold stifles a smile. "You know what I mean."

"The public library, then?"

Harold nods. "A fine idea. Except if you would be more comfortable at home? I have been meaning to speak with your father-"

"No!"

Harold keeps his tone mild. "Very well. I will reserve a study room at the Center." He does not comment on the paleness of Dennis' face, the upturned chair, the boy's rapid breathing. He does not turn away from his upset, either. "Does five-thirty work for you?"

Dennis stares at him. He nods. "Yeah."

"Alright. You may go if you wish to."

Dennis slams out of the room.

Harold takes off his glasses and rubs at his temples, eyes shut. After a moment, he drops his hands to pat blindly at the desk. It takes him a minute to realize that his thermos is missing. Another to remember where he had left it.

Harold stares at the door and wonders if it is too late to call in sick.

 

* * *

 

John carries Harold's thermos to the break room like an athlete might the Olympian torch. Shaw, the PE teacher, scowls at him over a healthy one pm lunch of hamburger and fries.

"Ugh, you're too chipper, go away. Except if there's whiskey in that thermos, then come over and share or I'm snitching."

It would've been whiskey, once. John ignores the singe of memory and grins. "Sorry, ladies. Green tea."

Linda snorts into what is probably her fifth cup of coffee. "Wouldn't have taken you for a tea guy, Reese."

"I'm not. A Mr. Wren left it behind this morning." John becomes aware of the sudden silence with some delay. He turns from the fridge. "What?"

"Harold? That's _Harold's_ tea?" Linda's eyes are large behind her pink-rimmed glasses.

"Yes?"

Linda stands abruptly and stalks forward. John's back hits the fridge before he realizes he had been retreating under her advance. "Gimme."

John blinks at her. "The tea?" Linda flushes. A slow smile splits John's face. "Want a reason to talk to him, hm."

Linda's glare is a lot less intimidating with her face mottled in hues of pink. "Shut up."

John beams. "Is this love? I think so."

"I'll hold him down for you," Shaw offers through a mouthful of fries.

Linda makes a grab for the thermos. John lifts it over his head, a good foot and a half higher than Linda could reach even if she were on her tippy-toes. "Come, now. Harold seems like a nice guy. You don't need to steal his thermos to start a conversation."

"You don't get it." Linda glares at the thermos sort of wistfully, then stomps back to her chair. John does not quite relax. He has enough combat experience to be wary of an easy capitulation. "He's impossible to catch outside of class and people are always _around_ at functions." She stabs at her lo mein. John decides to eat his sandwich standing up. "God, it sucks to like someone everyone's after."

John chokes on a bit of salami. "Everyone?"

"Everyone," Linda confirms sullenly. "It was a shitshow on Valentine's last year."

"Harold. Everyone wants Harold Wren." It is not that Harold is unattractive - the man is quite adorable, what with the fussing and the suits and the sweet little smiles. He simply does not seem like the type to be romanticized by bored school teachers.  

"He listens, when you talk to him. Actually listens and understands, and he just - he accepts you how you are, you know?"

John finds himself nodding. He kind of does.

"He is so _lovely_ ," Linda sighs. "I just want to grab those plump cheeks and kiss him."

"That's sweet."

Shaw snorts. "She's not talking about the cheeks on his face."

John blinks at Shaw, then at Linda. Both women carry on eating. "Well, this has been an informative afternoon."

Shaw toasts her milkshake in his direction. "Glad to be of help."

John pauses at the door. _Everyone_ , they'd said. "Would you go for Harold, Shaw?"

Shaw does not even think about it. "I'd push him down and ride him until he forgot his own name."

"Thanks for that."

"Anytime."

John leaves, Harold's thermos clutched in one hand, his soggy sandwich in the other, and the image of Harold Wren undone with pleasure etched in his brain.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Harold walks into the school at quarter to eight. He is red-cheeked, his tie is crooked, and the right side of his collar is creased in an awkward V by the lapel of his coat. Its edge flaps a little as Harold walks. John clenches his hands against the sudden urge to smooth it down. Fix the tie. Grab Harold by the lapels and-

The metal detector beeps. John does not flinch outwardly. Internally, he is panicking quite nicely. This has to be Shaw's fault. Shaw and Linda and their talk of ravishing Harold Wren.

Harold glances at John. John feels the distinctive need to duck under the table for cover.

Olga, a fellow security guard and John's partner for the morning rush, waves Harold through. Harold smiles gratefully.

"Good morning, Ms. Mathis."

"Unusual for you to be running late, Harold. Something keep you up last night?" Olga teases.

"Yes. Paperwork." Harold nods to John. "Mr. Reese."

"John," John corrects.

The corner of Harold's mouth twitches up. "John." Their eyes catch briefly. John smiles. Harold's lips pull up, mellowing his harried expression.

Olga turns on John as soon as Harold is out of earshot. Her eyebrows are doing their best to join her hairline. "So... you and Harold?"

John concentrates on the bag he is checking for grenades or whatever it is the school imagines students might bring in. "There is no me and Harold."

"I've known Harold for three years. You know how many times he's called me by my first name?" Olga wiggles two fingers in the air.

"Harold's humoring me."

Olga snorts. "John, trust me on this: Harold Wren doesn't _humor_ people. He may act all polite and meek, but try to get him to do anything he doesn't want to and you'll run into a wall of steel."

A shiver goes through John. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Umm, can I have my bag like, anytime soon?"

John zips the backpack and slides it across the table. "Phone off." The teen standing on the other end rolls her eyes and pockets her cell.

"So nothing's going on," Olga says.

John motions for the next kid to come up. "Yep."

"You're not crushing on Harold."

"Nope."

"My bad, then." Olga motions for a group of kids to go ahead. "By the way, you forgot to return his thermos."

John manages to keep from turning to check if Harold's thermos is still at his elbow. He know it is. He had placed it there exactly two hours ago. "How do you know it's not mine?" John asks blandly.

"I haven't seen you drink from it and it's been there all morning. Besides, news made the rounds." Olga frowns at the bag she is checking. "What the hell this? Hey, I'm talking to you!" she snaps her fingers. A tall boy looks up from his phone with a sneer. Olga points to the scuffed-up speaker she had pulled from the boy's gym bag. "I'm confiscating this."

"I wasn't gonna use it," the boy protests weakly.

"Then you won't mind me keeping it for you." Olga puts the bulky thing on the floor by the wall. "You can pick it up after school. And turn off your phone, or that's going too."

The boy grabs his bag and stalks off. John watches him go, eyes narrowed. He motions the next kid over. The crowd is thinning. The first bell is about to ring.

"It's high school, John. It's all drama and gossip," Olga says. John traces the comment back to their original conversation. He chuckles. 

"Even with the staff?"

"You kidding me? They're worse than the kids!" Olga lowers her voice, "Speaking of: Here comes the prom-queen, and she don't look too happy."

John smoothes his expression into pleasant blankness and turns to face the man stomping their way. "Good morning, Principal Simmons."

Principal Simmons scoffs, as per his usual greeting. "How's the investigation going?" he demands.

"Investigation, sir?" Olga's tone is best described as an audible eye roll.

"Yes," Simmon snaps. "Investigation. Of the vandalization of my _car_."

"We sent the tapes to the station already," Olga says. Simmons waves her off.

"The _police_ \- by the time _they_ do something..! No. I want you people on it. Not you," Simmons dismisses Olga, "You. The new guy. You've got cop background, yeah?" John nods tightly. "Do it."

"Do what, sir."

"Find out which of these little beasts defaced my car!"

Simmons is not making an effort to keep quiet. There are still students in the hallway. A few of them throw glares and middle fingers the man's way. More hunch their shoulders and walk faster. John's lips press into a thin line.

"I am afraid I can't do that."

"Why not? All it takes is watching the damn tape." Simmons leans over the table, crowding John. "It's easy enough even for you, I'd think."

John maintains a parade rest position. He puts his hands behind his back, mostly to remove the temptation of using them. "There is no tape, sir. The police took the only copy," John lies.

 Simmons flounders. "Well -then - Call the officer in charge!"

"That's not his responsibility-"

"Alright." John reaches for his phone.

Olga shoots John a look. "You don't have to, John," she tells him firmly.

"Yes, he does," Simmons snaps. John is scrolling through his contacts. He finds the number to the local police station and hits dials.

"Hello. May I speak with Detective Fusco?" John waits to be connected. Simmons is babbling something about damage estimates and mechanics. John tunes him out. "Detective. My name is John Reese. We met yesterday. Yes. ---Yes, Mr. Simmons is present." A hint of a frown curls John's mouth. "Just a moment." John holds the phone out to Simmons. "He wants to update you personally."

Simmons presses the phone to his ear. "Preston Simmons speaking. Yes, Detective. Thank you for-" Simmons' arch expression slowly dims. "Now, wait a- That's impossible! I think I would've noticed-" he cuts off. The voice on the other end gains in volume. "I - no, just a minute-"

 Simmons brings the phone down slowly. He stares at the dark screen, eyes wide.

"Good news?" John asks.

"Those - those _idiots_!" Simmons slams the phone against the table. John adds to his mental profile of the man: issues with anger, possibly violent. He calmly reaches over and retrieves his phone. "They're insisting no one touched the car!"

"The camera doesn't lie." Olga's smile is anything but sympathetic. "Perhaps it happened somewhere else."

Simmons wags a shaking finger at Olga, mouth opening and closing in silent rage. He leaves in a huff.

Olga's expression is a mixture of amusement and indignation. "Someone should draw a dick on his _face_."

 John gives her a wink. "Need a smoke break?"

Olga groans. "God, yes. You okay here on your own?"

"Sure."

"Thanks. Ten minutes."

"Take your time."

Olga slips outside. John looks around. The hallways are deserted. Students will keep coming in - tardy - at the main entrance on the other end of the school. All other exits lock automatically at eight and require a security ID to open.

The control room is dark. John leaves the lights off and seats himself at the desk. The monitors produce enough light to see by. John has his phone in his hand. The call button blinks steadily. The screen lights green on the third ring.

"Fusco."

"That wasn't very smart, Lionel."

Fusco makes a disgruntled sound. "You told me to get the guy off your back. I got him off your back. A thank you'd be nice."

"The execution is important." John clicks through a sequence of pop-up windows, then types in the staff password. There is only the one and no system to track the identity of who accesses what, which is just terrible security-wise. "If he finds out you're lying, we'll both be in hot water."

"Who's lying?"

The files are a mess. There is a single folder for each camera, and no subcategories. Some of the files are not titled as they should be, too. John finds the recording he needs only because he had been the one to save it to begin with. He double-clicks on it. "I have seen the tape, Lionel."

"Yeah, so have I." Papers rustle on Fusco's end. "Why the hell are you wasting time on this thing anyway? You know Carter wasn't happy sending you in. I wouldn't antagonize her more, if I were you." Fusco pauses. "Reese. Reese, you there?"

"Yes," John says absently. "Thank you, Lionel."

"Now _that_ doesn't sound like you at all. Is this code or some-"

John presses the _end call_ button without looking. On the screen in front of him, Preston Simmons' Mercedes sits in the parking lot dripping red paint for three hours straight - from six am, when Simmons parks the car, to nine am when the graffiti is discovered by a delighted group of truant sixth graders. Neither Harold Wren nor Daniel Gipson make an appearance.

John watches the segment twice, slowing the video to real-time play at the very beginning and around the time he remembers Harold Wren arriving in his own car. There are no skips, no sudden appearances or deletions. The grafitti is visible on the car as soon as there's light enough to allow the camera to catch it. Whoever had tampered with the recording is obviously a pro.

John exits the video and signs out. He sits in front of the screens a while longer, thinking. Access to the monitoring room is restricted to the security staff, but an interested party would not find it too difficult to overcome the simple lock. Not to mention how many times John had found the door wide open with no one in sight. The hacker could be anyone - a guard, a teacher, a student even.

John taps his fingers against the desk. No, not anyone. Someone with a motive.

 _That_ list is certainly short.

"What else are you hiding in that briefcase of yours, Mr. Wren?"

 

* * *

 

Harold watches his students spill out of the classroom like it's on fire. The fourth-period bell is still ringing when the last of them is hollering a goodbye. Harold waves and hopes he is smiling and not grimacing. He can't really tell anymore.

Harold pushes up from his desk. His back feels like it is made of two separate pieces held together by a frayed string of nerves. Every breath is accompanied by a white-hot spark of pain. Walking around in this condition is out of the question, and there is quite a lot of walking to be done before the day is through. Harold presses his lips in a grim line. He sits back down and reaches for his briefcase.

"Stiff muscles?"

Harold manages not to spill his water bottle down the front of his suit, but it is a near thing. He wipes at his lips, conscious of the few drops that had made it down his neck and sunk into the collar of his shirt. "Don't you _knock_?"

John Reese grins at him. John's smiles are edged, Harold has noticed. Bright but dangerous. Like the blade of a masterfully crafted sword.

Harold resolutely ends that line of thought. He busies himself with righting the papers on his desk. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I have something of yours."

John sets an object on the desk with a loud _thunk_. Harold looks up at the sound. "I thought I had misplaced it. Thank you, Mr. Reese." He smiles up at John. John stares back, seemingly bewildered. "Mr. Reese?" Harold tries.

John shakes his head. The suave confidence is back when he drawls, "John." The man then proceeds to seat himself at the edge of Harold's desk. Harold sputters a flustered protest. Imploring blue eyes fix on Harold and hold. "I was wondering if you'd join me for lunch."

Harold flounders for a good reason to decline. He has over a hundred of them tucked away in his mind - bland, polite excuses that leave little room for argument and inspire no curiosity. "I am afraid I cannot," is what he ends up saying to John.

John's expression does not change. Harold still gets the feeling the man is laughing at him.

"I am afraid I must insist." John leans forward. He is larger than Harold in normal circumstances - taller, broader across the shoulders. Seated as they are, John's body curves over Harold's to cover him entirely. "I think you have something of mine."

Harold licks his lips. It's a nervous habit he had kicked a decade ago. Thought he had, at least. "Of yours?"

John smirks. "Perhaps 'the school's' is more accurate."

"I am sure I do not know what you are talking about."

"You see, Harold, I don't think I believe you." John leans back. Harold is suddenly struck with the image of a jungle cat lounging in a tree as its prey wanders underneath, oblivious. "I'm not sure Principal Simmons will, either. He's pretty broken up over his toy."

Harold narrows his eyes. John carries on smiling.

"Very well."

Harold stands up. There is still pain, but it is far from crippling. The pills have done their job. Harold collects his briefcase and coat. John watches him. "I will need to be back in time for sixth period," Harold reminds. John smirks slowly.

"Don't worry, Harold. I'll take care of you."

Harold rolls his eyes and sets for the door. John Reese's footsteps echo his, almost in sync.

The hallways are mostly empty - kids are either in the cafeteria or in class. John leads Harold past the control room. The door is closed and locked. No one's manning the exit. John frowns. Jarrett and Rife are probably smoking outside again.

"What is that?"

Harold has stopped walking. John follows his eyes. "A speaker. One of the kids tried to sneak it in."

"It should be locked away with the rest of the confiscated items."

John shrugs. "Must have gotten left behind." Harold pursues his mouth. John holds in an exasperated sigh. "Nobody's going to take it Harold, trust me," he finds himself saying. He walks over to the banged up thing. "I mean, look at it. It's got more dents than my-" John inhales sharply.

"Mr. Reese, is everything-"

Harold's question ends with a startled grunt and John's arms around his middle. John half-walks, half-carries Harold down the deserted hallway, feet slapping at the floor, muscles pumping. Harold is breathing hitched questions against his neck but all John hears is a mechanical tick-tick-tick

\- _tack_.

John pushes Harold into an alcove of lockers and covers him with his body.

A breath later, the hallway explodes.


	3. Chapter 3

“And that’s the whole of it.”

“I am starting to think you don’t trust me, Officer.”  

Connor glares. John smiles with just enough teeth to have Connor grinding hers. The parking lot is loud around them, the street beyond as well. Officers in uniform mingle with crowds of parents and students. The teachers stand to one side, looking rather like sheep waiting for slaughter. Concerned families are hell to deal with on days bombs _don't_ explode on school property. The barrage of microphones and barbed questions courtesy of the local news channels have a few gentler souls already in tears.

“-eese. John!”

John blinks at Connor, eyes wide in exaggerated innocence. Connor’s narrowed glare tells him she isn't buying his shit. John maintains his outward calm with some difficulty. He stands up. Connor has to tip her head up to maintain eye-contact. Some small, petty part of John is pleased.

“Anything else I can help you with?”

Connor studies him. “Be careful,” she says at length.

Connor leaves first. John watches her until she reaches Fusco, then makes himself turn away. Connor’s concern grates. John can't help perceiving it as a weakness, a point of vulnerability that can be exploited for gain. It leaves him feeling sick with himself.

John scans his surroundings. His gaze lands on an ambulance parked outside the gates. The crowd moves around him, parting to let him through. John keeps his gait steady. The jittery restlessness that urges him forward is familiar. He hasn't felt its kind since-

A while. A long, long while.

“John!”

John stops walking. Harold Wren watched him from the open back of the ambulance. Someone had wrapped a blanket over his shoulders. The bright orange clashes terribly with the softer colors of Harold’s suit. Harold’s glasses are missing. His eyes look strange without them. His whole face does.

“Are you alright, Mr. Reese?”

John shakes off his stupor. “Fine, Mr. Wren."

Harold blinks in confusion. John is close enough now to see how wide his pupils are blown. John’s smile turns more genuine, less carved from wood.

“They gave you the good stuff, huh.”

Harold blinks again. “You don’t call me Mr. Wren," he says. An irritated little frown curls his lips as the rest of John’s words make it through. “I am perfectly lucid, I assure you.”

“That you are,” John agrees. He scans the surroundings for a stray EMT. Harold isn't the most reliable source when it comes to his own condition at the moment.

Harold shuffles off the back of the ambulance. He lands on unsteady feet. John darts forward and grabs his elbow before Harold’s knees completely give way. Harold pitches into John’s side with a surprised gasp. The brief silence that follows carries a distinctively abashed tone.

Harold clears his throat. “Thank you, John.”

“You are most welcome, Harold.”

Harold looks up. John smiles down at him, wide and sunny.

“You can let go now,” Harold prompts.

The note of mirth in Harold's voice has John grinning wider. He takes a step back. Harold wobbles precariously. John moves close again and offers his arm. After a moment of hesitation, Harold takes it. He seems to find the ground awfully interesting. Red creeps over his ears. John has the sudden urge to press a hand to the man’s cheek and feel the burn there for himself.

Harold pauses at the mouth of the parking lot. He takes in the scene. His expression grows tight. John tugs him forward, not into the school but down the street.

“I have classes left to teach,” Harold protests.

“School is cancelled through tomorrow.”

Harold shakes his head. “I need to speak with my students. They – John,” John halts his own gait to accommodate Harold's sudden stillness. The wide-eyed look of fear on Harold’s face has John's free hand clenching, seeking the weight of a gun. “Was anyone hurt?” Harold says. He sounds more terrible than he had in the wake of the explosion, when his lungs were filled with smoke and his body convulsed in pain.

“No. No one was hurt.”

Harold closes his eyes briefly. John looks away, stomach tight with guilt.

“The police would want a statement,” Harold says. His tone lacks its previous urgency. John takes note of that, of the ease with which the man gives in when John reminds him of their lunch plans.

“There is a diner just down the street,” John says.

Harold nods. He leans more of his weight against John. His limp is pronounced when they walk into the diner some ten minutes later. John selects a booth in the very back, well away from any windows. He helps Harold to a seat. John’s own faces the diner and affords a clear view of the door.

A waitress comes by. She sets two glasses of water on the table and pours their complimentary coffee. John asks for tea on Harold’s behalf. Harold himself is otherwise preoccupied. John watches the other man squint at the menu, his own mouth twitching in amusement.

“Do you have your glasses, Harold?” he asks finally.

Harold brightens. He pats at the pockets of his suit. The glasses prove a little worse for wear; the right lens is cracked, the frame bent inward over the bridge of his nose. Harold slides them on with a content hum.

“Is there anything you recommend?”

“The eggs are good,” John says. “With the house sausage. And orange juice, naturally.”

Harold arches a brow. He has obviously caught onto the purpose of the protein-rich meal, despite his muddled state. John reevaluates the man’s intellect upward yet again.

“I am not in shock, John.”

“Humor me.”

Harold gives him an exasperated look. When the waitress returns, he orders eggs and sausage and inquires whether the orange juice is squeezed or from a bottle. The waitress’ blank-eyed expression is an answer enough. Harold orders a plate of fruit instead. Oranges included.

“Do you have something against Tropicana?”

“Commercially available brands tend to be high in added sugars,” Harold says primly. The flush is back, high in his cheeks. John’s own hurt from smiling.

“I guess you’re not too excited about the milk they serve in the cafeteria.” Harold’s expression twists in a pained wince. “How long have you been at Bronx, Harold?”

“Three years. Almost precisely.”

The food arrives. Harold eats slowly, hands sluggish over the utensils. John doesn't taste a bite of his own omelet. Three years puts Harold in the right timeframe. It doesn't have to mean anything. John doesn't want it to mean anything.

“If you wish to know something, you need only ask,” Harold says.

John looks at him. Harold sips at his tea, expression serene.

“You did bring me here for a reason,” Harold says gently, as if John is the one who needs handling.

John keeps his expression easy, his smile teasing. He had pressed for Harold’s company over a doctored video. Now he has a bomb and a three-year-old murder case on his mind and Harold Wren still, maddeningly, in the midst of it all.

“How good are you with a computer, Harold?”

“Good enough to do my job.”

John grins, impressed by the man’s cheek. Harold smiles back. The mischievous sparkle in his eyes has John giddy.

“Oh, I think you are a little better than that. If we are still speaking of teaching, that is.”

Harold hums. “We are both men of talent, then. Do they teach bomb-detection in the force?”

“It’s more on-the-job kind of training.”

“I see.” Harold puts his cup down. “I won’t insult you by asking about your purpose at Bronx, John. I will, however, implore you not to risk your life in this manner again.”

“I saved us both.”

“You saved _me_. Had the explosive been more powerful…” Harold shakes his head, visibly distressed. John looks away. Something hard seems to be lodged in his throat.

“I am fine,” he says. “You are fine. The kids are fine.”

Harold’s lips pull into a wry smile. “Who isn’t, nowadays? ‘Fine’ is not a reliable measure of state. It is the expected response to a question that is asked only rhetorically.”

John smiles. “How are you?”

“Just fine,” Harold replies, voice dry.

They finish their lunch in silence. Harold grows tenser as time passes, body stiffening with pain and remnant shock. John insists on another dose of painkillers. Harold protests until it's time to get up and he can't unbend his legs. He takes the pills, carefully not looking at John. John doesn't try to reassure him. It isn't his place. Harold would fare better if he doesn't get too comfortable in John’s company, in the long run.

The pills do their job, and quickly. Perks of emergency-care drugs. The EMT worker had obviously liked Harold. That, or Harold had been in that rough of state. John considers a third option in passing. In the end, he dismisses the possibility of Harold raiding the ambulance.

John escorts Harold to his car. Harold insists he is _fine_. Even had the word not recently lost its meaning in their shared dictionary, the painkillers have left Harold far too giggly for John’s peace of mind.

The parking lot is nearly deserted. Harold leads the way to his car. John follows a step behind, eyes on the Jeep parked next to Harold’s sensible little hybrid. Shaw reclines against the driver side. She gives Harold an amused once-over, then cocks an eyebrow in John’s direction.

“You work fast.”

John rolls his eyes. Beside him, Harold puffs up like an irritated hedgehog.

“John was a perfect gentleman.”

“Oh, yeah?” Shaw drawls. John feels unreasonably warm. He blames the sun and lack of tree cover in the parking lot. “Want a ride home?”

Harold shakes his head. “Thank you, but I must decline. I have a tutoring appointment at five.”

“I can drive you.”

“I already offered,” John interrupts smoothly. He smiles at Harold. Harold smiles back, still too fuzzy to properly follow the conversation. “It’s no trouble.”

The look Shaw shoots John is decidedly less friendly this time around. “Harold lives out in the suburbs. How do you plan to get back to the city, if you take his car?”

“John will spend the night.”

Harold has unlocked the car at some point. His upper half is inside the vehicle, ostensibly tidying up the spill of papers on the back and passenger seats. His backside protrudes. It wiggles with his movements. John tries not to look that way too much. Shaw shifts her disapproving look from John to Harold (‘s behind).

“Will he, now.”

John smiles with all his teeth. Shaw glares. Harold shuffles out of the car, oblivious to the increasingly menacing atmosphere.  

“Harold-” Shaw begins, voice hard.

“Miss Shaw, I wouldn’t want to hold you. I am sure you are awaited at home. We are rather pressed for time, as well. John.”

Harold holds out the car keys. John takes them, not bothering to hide his smug grin. Shaw bares her teeth in what could possibly pass for a smile. From far away. Among wolves.

John holds the door open for Harold. He throws a wink Shaw’s way. Shaw flips him off. John walks around the car and slides into the driver seat.

Harold has a briefcase balanced on his lap. John raises his brows.

“Where did that come from?”

“Miss Shaw was kind enough to keep it for me,” Harold mutters absently. He checks the locks, then sets the briefcase on the floor between his legs.  

John shifts into drive. Harold waves at Shaw. Shaw waves back, the motion stilted and angry-looking.

"So. I am spending the night."

"Only if you wish. You do not have to do this, John. As I said, I am perfectly fine with taking a taxi."

John wonders at the choice of words. Had that _fine_ been deliberate? He shakes his head. _John_ isn't fine with Harold taking a taxi. He doesn't particularly want to explore the reason at the moment.

"If you're sure."

"I am."

John nods. Harold settles back in his seat and digs out his phone. He regards the screen with a perplexed frown.

“Something the matter?”

“Thirty-five missed calls, and – oh, goodness, fifty-three messages.”

John bites back a laugh. “You’re certainly popular, Harold.”

“I hope no one was too worried,” Harold mutters. His fingers are slow over the screen. Harold frowns down at his hands. He lets out a warble of surprise when the phone starts buzzing and nearly drops it.

Harold squints at the caller ID. He answers with a bemused, “Ms. Brown?" and John can't help himself. He laughs. Harold’s kittenish glare has him clutching at the wheel, eyes wet.

“Oh, yes, I am quite alright. I am touched you thought of me – John, we are drifting into the opposite lane – yes? Oh yes, Mr. Reese is with me. Would you like to speak with him?”

John shakes his head. Harold presses the phone to his ear anyway. His fingers brush against John’s skin.

John takes the phone.

“Hello?”

“You’re a sneak,” Linda accuses.

John smirks. “Glad to hear you’re well, Linda."

There is a brief silence. “Thank you,” Linda says. She clears her throat. “You’re still a sneak. I can’t believe you. To think I let you have Harold’s thermos.”

“You too, have to go, bye-bye.”

John presses the _end_ button. He offers the phone to Harold. Harold accepts it quietly. John shoots him an inquiring look.

“You should do that more often,” Harold says.

“Hang up on your admirers?”

“Laugh.” Harold’s brows wrinkle with some delay. “Please, do not tease, John.”

John shakes his head. His easy smile wavers. Harold types at his phone, unaware of the sudden change of mood and the effect of his own words. John looks at him as he drives. His eyes slip to the briefcase between Harold’s legs often. It should by all rights still be in that forsaken hallway, under a wall’s worth of rubble.

"Parkchester Library. Right, then a left.”

John turns right. A traffic camera glints high above, its lone eye shining gold with the afternoon sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *awkward author silence* So. Hello. *waves* Story's still happening. Have a cookie :)


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